


Take my whole life too

by BearlyWriting



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [11]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Original Character Death(s), Prompt: Take Me Instead, Rape Aftermath, Rescue, Scars, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: "It’s probably just another part of the game Thorak is playing with them. But Shiro can’t let anything happen to Keith. He can’t. Hecan’t.“If you’re interested in the Black Paladin, you’ve got the wrong person.”“Oh?” Thorak’s smile is sharp. He doesn’t pull his hand out of Keith’s armour. “Is that so?”"Shiro will do anything to protect Keith. For the prompt "Take Me Instead" for the Bad Things Happen Bingo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags! This fic contains a graphic rape scene - if that's going to bother you in any way, please don't read this fic. If I've missed any tags or warnings, let me know, I'm happy to add anything!

Shiro isn’t sure how the mission went so wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be an easy mission, exactly, but it was supposed to be doable. It wasn’t supposed to end with Keith and Hunk and Shiro kneeling on the floor, arms wrenched behind them and bound tight with harsh metal cuffs. Shiro’s prosthetic arm is a useless dead weight, dragging heavy on his shoulder, and his head is still fuzzy from the blow he had taken. It’s impossible to tell how long he had been out for. Long enough that his vision is blurry. Long enough that just holding his head up is painful enough that Shiro can feel bile at the back of his throat. He would be worried about a concussion if he wasn’t so worried about everything else.

He has no idea how badly Keith and Hunk are injured. He has no idea where Pidge and Lance are either - although hopefully they’ve taken Green and got the hell out of there. If they’re back at the castle then they have a chance to recoup. Reassess the plan and come up with a way to rescue them. If they’re still on the Galra base then they’re in trouble, and the rest of the Paladins are in bad enough trouble as it is.

There’s a long, dark gash curving down the length of Keith’s cheek. It isn’t deep, but it’s oozing blood over his jaw. Hunk still has his helmet on, which is either an oversight on their captors’ part, or it’s intentional - which does not fill Shiro with confidence. If they’ve left it on on purpose, it means the Galra have a plan that Shiro, in his fuzzy, half-conscious state, can’t decipher.

He thinks he hears Hunk talking, so low that it could just be the murmur of his own blood in his ears. Shiro isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not either, but he isn’t going to tell Hunk to stop. The Yellow Paladin is smart - he wouldn’t put himself in danger for no reason.

The noise stops as soon as the door to the room slides open and a Galra soldier steps in. Shiro starts. Something about the Galra stirs something at the back of his mind. Has Shiro met him before? Had he fought him in the arena?

The Galra - Sorak? Thorak? - the name slides through the fog in Shiro’s head without purchase, steps closer. He’s smiling, the flash of sharp teeth. Bright yellow eyes flicker over them, assessing...and something else. The gaze drags long and slow over Shiro’s body. Feels almost sticky on his skin. It sends goosebumps prickling over his arms, sharp little pinpricks of unease. Hunk gets the same treatment, and Shiro bristles at the tension he can feel radiating off the Yellow Paladin, before Thorak’s eyes finally settle on Keith. 

There isn’t much to see besides their armour - Hunk’s face isn’t even really visible with his helmet still on - and it’s such a blatant power-play that Shiro almost snarls. 

It’s just another way to intimidate them, Shiro tells himself as the Galra gives Keith an exaggerated up-and-down. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Hell, Shiro’s no stranger to a sly comment, a leer, raucous laughter. The Galra weren’t shy about keeping their prisoners beaten down - knew exactly how to ensure they were afraid. This is just more of the same.

It doesn’t loosen the small, tight knot in Shiro’s stomach.

“The Black Paladin.” Thorak’s voice is so low it’s almost a purr. Some instinctual, reptilian part of Shiro’s brain recoils at the sound. “Well, look at you.”

It’s aimed at Keith. Thorak is standing close enough that, kneeling on the ground in front of him, Keith is forced to turn his head to avoid crushing his face against the Galra’s armoured legs. Close enough that Shiro can smell the animal stink of his fur. 

Keith’s face is pale in the purple wash of the Galra ship. Turned towards him like that, Shiro can see it clearly - can see the pinched skin between furrowed brows, can see the twitch of his lips as Keith suppresses a growl.

Has a perfect view of the grimace that twists across Keith’s face as Thorak buries his fingers in his dark hair and uses the grip to wrench the paladin’s head back. It’s not a forgiving angle. Thorak grins as Keith rocks back beneath the pressure, the expanse of his neck bared by the sharp curve of his spine. A small noise forces its way out of Keith’s throat. It’s difficult to tell whether it’s anger or pain.

“Hey!” Hunk’s voice startles Shiro. For a moment Shiro thinks, stupidly, that he’s replying to someone on the comms. But when he glances over at him, Hunk’s eyes are focused right on Keith, burning bright beneath his helmet. “Let go of him!”

Thorak just smiles and his hands don’t gentle their grip in Keith’s hair. Shiro’s throat is inordinately tight. He wants to yell too. Wants to fight and scream and force the Galra away from his friend. But he can’t tell what game Thorak is playing. Would shouting for Keith be showing his hand? Would it simply amuse him? Or worse, encourage him? Shiro’s mouth is dry with his own indecision. His fear.

Thorak gives no indication that he even heard Hunk. His free hand slides down to grip Keith’s jaw. The press of long fingers forces Keith’s mouth into an odd little pout that might be cute in any other circumstance, but instead just seems grotesque. Keith jerks his head, but Thorak’s grip doesn’t falter. A low growl rumbles out of Keith’s throat instead. 

“My men are already searching the ship. We’re going to find your little friends.” Those yellow eyes slide to Shiro. “It’ll be good to have a matching set. In the meantime, we’ll just have to find a way to entertain ourselves.”

Something cold slides down Shiro’s spine. That’s not good. There’s nothing good about Galran ‘entertainment’ - Shiro would know.

Thorak crouches and even then he still looms over Keith’s smaller figure. The hand at his jaw drops to slide over the chest plate of Keith’s armour in a way that sets Shiro’s skin crawling. Long fingers find the clasps hidden beneath his armpit and there’s a click as Thorak starts snapping them open.

Oh God.

“What are you doing?” Hunk asks, voice tight. 

At the same time Keith lunges, snapping teeth, snarling furiously. The movement throws him against the grip Thorak still has on his hair and his teeth close around nothing but thin air. It must hurt. Thorak pushes him back easily, holding him still as he works on his armour.

“I thought we could have some fun. The Black Paladin is a pretty prize.” He smirks. His hand slides under the gap he’s created in Keith’s armour, palming over the flight suit underneath. “Not many people can claim to have beaten the leader of Voltron. I think I should make the most of it.”

Fur brushes across Keith’s skin as Thorak shifts closer. Then the Galra drags his tongue up the still-oozing gash bisecting Keith’s cheek, hums, turns to slide it, wet and slick, across Keith’s lips. Fear drops like a stone through Shiro’s gut. Keith makes a tight, protesting noise.

“That’s enough.” Shiro is surprised by his own voice - the glass-flat sound of it. It comes out louder than he was expecting. Part of him is surprised he managed to squeeze any noise out of the swollen lump of his throat at all.

Shiro has no idea how Thorak knows that it was Keith who piloted Black to the Galra base - Shiro is still wearing the Black Paladin armour after all - but he’s regretting their decision now. It’s probably just another part of the game Thorak is playing with them. But Shiro can’t let anything happen to Keith. He can’t. He _can’t_.

“If you’re interested in the Black Paladin, you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Oh?” Thorak’s smile is sharp. He doesn’t pull his hand out of Keith’s armour. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Shiro snarls, loud to drown out the protesting sound Keith makes in turn, although Thorak can’t miss it, pressed as close as he is. “I’m the Black Paladin. I’m wearing the armour aren’t I?”

Thorak lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Finally, he pulls his hand free, but only to start fiddling with the clasps at Keith’s waist instead. Bile surges up Shiro’s throat at the sight, hot in his chest. Anger and fear twist his stomach into a tight, painful knot.

“But this one is much prettier.”

The sound that rips itself out of Shiro’s throat is animal. Beside him, Hunk makes a startled, frightened noise. Shiro barely notices. He lunges, throwing himself bodily at Thorak. Even with his arms cuffed behind his back, his prosthetic a dead weight, he has to get the Galra away from Keith, has to get him to stop touching him.

Thorak knocks him back with the ease of someone swatting a fly and Shiro falls heavily enough to set his head spinning. At least the Galra lets go of Keith, following Shiro down as he falls, one hand closing around his throat, heavy legs bracketing Shiro’s thighs. Shiro’s arms are trapped beneath him, digging painfully into his spine.

“Cute.” The fingers around his throat flex. “Throwing yourself at me? Are you so eager to take his place?”

Shiro peels his lips back in a snarl. The sound doesn’t make it past the obstruction around his throat. Thorak chuckles.

“Why should I fuck you instead?”

It’s strange how - despite knowing exactly what Thorak was intending, despite seeing him pawing at Keith, trying to strip him out of his armour - the words still send hot shock jolting through Shiro’s chest. It’s like a physical blow, punching any remaining air from his lungs. He chokes.

Maybe it is still all some sick game. Maybe it’s just another way to intimidate them - to keep them small and scared while Thorak holds them captive. It wouldn’t be the first time the threat of rape had been wielded to keep prisoners in line.

Or maybe Thorak is deadly serious and Shiro needs to say the right thing if he doesn’t want to watch Keith be raped right in front of him. Just the thought has Shiro’s chest aching. There’s an awful metallic taste in Shiro’s mouth. Keith’s still so young, he can’t - Shiro can’t let that happen.

He swallows hard beneath the press of Thorak’s hand. “You scared?”

Shiro is. Thorak must be able to feel the rush of his pulse in his throat.

“Don’t think you can take on the real Black Paladin, huh?” He twists his mouth into a sneer. Tries hard to keep his own fear off his face. “Scared of the Champion?”

“Shiro-“

Thorak backhands him so casually that for a moment Shiro doesn’t even realise it’s happened. Then the pain splinters across his cheek, pulsing in time with the throbbing from his earlier head wound. If Shiro gets out of this, he’s definitely going to have to worry about that concussion. Right now he isn’t worried about anything but what Thorak is about to do next.

Hunk and Keith both cry out as he’s hit. He feels, rather than sees, Keith jerk towards him. One of the sentries must catch him before he can make contact because Thorak’s weight doesn’t shift from Shiro’s legs.

There’s the sound of a struggle. Keith snarling furiously. Hunk’s voice, high and frightened: “Stop it! Get off of him!”

Shiro’s vision swims.

“Why don’t you beg?” Hot breath washes over Shiro’s cheek. It smells awful, like wet dog and rancid meat. Shiro has to tighten his throat against a gag. Thorak shifts, then the weight of him is pressing into Shiro’s hips rather than his thighs, grotesquely intimate even with the layers of armour between them. “Beg me to fuck you instead.”

Shiro could fight - the new position means his legs are free. He could probably break out of Thorak’s hold even with his arms immobilised.

But his head is spinning and it hurts and his Galra arm is a dead weight, pressing sharply into his spine. There are sentries standing guard - one of them is pressing Keith into the ground, an implacable metal machine - and neither Hunk nor Keith have their bayards on them. They’re not getting out of this without help. All Shiro can do is minimise the damage.

“Don’t Shiro.” Keith’s voice is choked, painfully frightened. “Don’t please, you don’t have to protect me.”

But he does, he _does_.

“Please.” It squeezes out of Shiro’s crushed throat.

Thorak grins, tilts his head, rolls his hips against Shiro’s. “Please what?”

“Please, fuck me instead.”

Can the Castle hear him through Hunk’s helmet? It’s not out of the ordinary to catch background noise through the comms, and Hunk is kneeling close enough to Shiro that it’s a distinct possibility. Can Pidge? Can Lance?

God, Shiro hopes not - knowing that Keith and Hunk are here to witness this is bad enough.

If there is someone on the other end of the comms, they can’t miss Hunk’s whimper.

“Good,” Thorak purrs. Shiro almost doesn’t hear the word beneath Keith shouting and struggling beside him. “Not so scary now, are you Champion?”

“I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you if you touch him.” Keith roars.

Better Shiro than Keith, he thinks, as Thorak strokes one hand over Shiro’s bruised cheek and works quickly at the clasps of his armour with the other. Better than Hunk, or Lance, or Pidge, or Allura. The image of Keith so small and vulnerable - the Galra’s huge hands beneath his armour - is burned into Shiro’s mind. Better this than that. 

Shiro’s already tainted, anyway. There are already so many awful things locked away in his head - things he’s done, things that have been done to him. This will be just one more thing to keep him up at night. It’s bad enough that the other Paladins are being forced to fight a war, galaxies away from Earth - if Shiro can protect them, he will.

A hand slips under his armour.

“Please,” Hunk begs. “Don’t do this.”

Shiro’s armour peels away like the exoskeleton of some grotesque bug. It’s not an entirely inaccurate analogy - Shiro _feels_ grotesque, small and vulnerable and cracked open. With only his flight suit between him and Thorak’s probing hands. A claw traces over Shiro’s chest and Shiro can’t stop his breath from hitching.

When one of Thorak’s hands closes around his hip and tries to flip him onto his stomach, Shiro resists on instinct, muscles bunching beneath his flight suit, his whole body a tight, tense line. Thorak smiles, claws pricking skin through the thin material of his suit.

“Changed your mind, Champion?” Yellow eyes find Keith and Shiro’s gaze follows them automatically. “Perhaps he isn’t worth the sacrifice after all?”

No. God, that’s not - Shiro’s stomach tightens. Keith’s face is red from his struggling. The sentry is still on top of him, pressing one hard metal knee into his back, pinning him to the floor like a butterfly on a board. When their eyes meet, there’s something dark and wild in Keith’s that Shiro’s never seen before.

“It’s OK, Shiro. I can take it. Please don’t-“

“No.” Shiro forces himself to go limp. Hates it. Hates himself. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

Thorak flips him onto his belly with breathtaking ease. Even if Shiro had been resisting - had honestly fought him - the strength behind that movement tells him he still wouldn’t have won. It’s all part of the game - taunting Shiro with Keith, forcing him to cooperate, forcing him to agree to it, to _beg_ for it, as if he has some sort of _choice_. It’s sick, but then, the whole situation is.

“Good boy,” Thorak murmurs again, smoothing a hand down the length of Shiro’s spine. There’s an awkward fumbling as the Galra struggles to get Shiro’s armour off with his arms tied behind him, then it falls away and Shiro can feel the heat of him against his back.

“There we go. Not so big now are you, huh?”

Shiro certainly doesn’t feel big. Beneath the bulk of the Galra Shiro feels small and sick and frightened. 

The bottom of Shiro’s flight suit shreds like tissue paper beneath Thorak’s claws. Some of Shiro’s skin too, he thinks, although any pain is eclipsed by the shame, burning hot in Shiro’s chest.

“Stop it! God, stop, please. You’ve made your point. You don’t need to do this.”

Shiro shivers at the desperation in Hunk’s voice. At the hot burst of air against the back of his neck as Thorak chuckles. At the reminder that they’re there, that they can see this, that they'll know. 

“I don’t _need_ to do anything.”

There’s a rustle of clothing behind him, the brush of Thorak’s hand against bare flesh as he fumbles with his own pants. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a part of him that wants to look back, to get a little warning for what’s about to happen to him. The other, larger, part balks at the idea. Thorak is _big_ , looming huge over Shiro - he doesn’t need to know exactly how proportionate everything is.

Thorak leans over him, pressing himself against the curve of Shiro’s back. One hand curls into his hair, claws pricking sharp against his scalp, forcing his head down against the floor. At this angle, Thorak’s mouth is close enough to Shiro’s face that he can feel the brush of fur against his cheek, hot breath in his ear, the sharp promise of those teeth. His own breath fogs against the slick metal floor beneath his face in rough, desperate pants.

Something hot and hard slides against the bare skin of Shiro’s thigh.

“No! No!”

Shiro wishes he could close his ears too. Then he wouldn’t have to hear the wet, frantic sound of Keith’s voice. Wouldn’t have to hear either of them beg for him. Wouldn’t have to hear the low groan Thorak presses against his ear as he rocks his hips.

A hand fumbles between them. Shiro knows what’s about to happen. He should relax, he thinks, a little distantly, as Thorak guides himself into position. It’ll hurt less if he relaxes.

But he can’t make his muscles cooperate. Only tenses further as Thorak grips his hip hard enough to bruise and forces himself inside in one long thrust.

It hurts. God, _it hurts_.

It’s all Shiro can think, his world narrowed down to the burning, unyielding line of pain forcing its way through him. Thorak _is_ big. Too big. He’s going to tear Shiro apart. There’s no way Shiro can take this.

But there’s no quarter from Thorak, no slow stretch, no chance to adjust to the strange, huge intrusion in his body. He presses himself inexorably forward until his pelvis is flush against Shiro, burying the full, awful length inside him, snarling, pressing teeth into the back of Shiro’s neck. Distantly, Shiro is aware that he’s making frantic sounds of pain - that he’s whimpering like an animal - but he can’t stop them, even when he bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, they keep on slipping past his teeth.

And more distantly than that, he’s aware of someone sobbing. Not him, he thinks, although his eyes are wet with the threat of tears. Hunk, probably. And somehow that’s almost worse than his own violation - knowing this is hurting them.

Thorak thrusts harshly, moaning low and guttural as he does. Shiro’s whole body jerks beneath him. It’s too much. Shiro’s splitting in two, forced wide and raw and open. Something gives inside of him and Shiro screams, can’t stifle the sound, can’t force it back between his teeth.

Someone echoes the sound - not quite a scream, but a high, tight noise of pain. Even through the agony of being split apart, it makes Shiro’s chest ache.

“Pathetic,” Thorak snarls, voice rough with lust and exertion. “The great Champion, the famed Black Paladin, and here you are, speared on my cock like any other bitch.”

Shiro trembles. Tightens his throat against the sob trying to bubble out of his chest. Thorak is right by his ear, but he’s speaking loud enough for the others to hear him. Shiro wishes he wasn’t, wishes he wouldn’t speak at all.

“Fuck you.” Keith’s crying. Shiro can hear it in the wet catch in his voice. “I’ll kill you.”

Shiro bites his lip hard enough to send blood trickling down his chin.

It seems to last an eternity. The whole world narrowed to Thorak, plastered over Shiro’s back, pressing his head against the floor, thrusting rough and painful against him. Blood trickles hot over Shiro’s chin. Over his neck where Thorak has set his teeth against his throat. He can feel it warm between his thighs, making awful slick noises as Thorak pushes in and out of him. 

Shiro himself is barely making any sound anymore, lax in Thorak’s grip, mouth open against the floor, hot and moist as he pants through the pain.

It has to be over soon. It has to be. Thorak is snarling, his thrusts quick and rhythmless. Just end, Shiro begs, just end, please.

Finally, Thorak makes a strange, choking sound above him. The claws buried in his hip flex painfully, then fall away. The hand pressing his head to the floor goes lax. There’s a burst of hot breath against Shiro’s cheek, then Thorak slumps heavily over him and goes still.

For a long moment Shiro doesn’t dare move. That - that wasn’t what he was expecting. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening. There are voices swirling in the air around him, not loud, but urgent. It’s difficult to make sense of them. Difficult to make sense of anything other than the limp weight of the body pressing him into the ground and the pain, throbbing through his whole body like it’s in his blood.

“Shiro!” Movement. A sudden release of pressure as Thorak is rolled off of him. A flash of pain as their bodies separate. Shiro blinks his eyes open, twisting to get his legs under him, trying desperately to struggle into a less compromising position.

Lance blinks back at him.

They came. Relief rushes through Shiro so strongly that he feels lightheaded with it. They’re here. They won’t let Thorak touch Keith - or Hunk - they’re safe.

As quickly as the relief comes, it’s gone again. Because Shiro knows what he looks like: his armour scattered on the floor around him, his flight suit torn to shreds from the waist, blood on his naked thighs. Lance must have seen Thorak rutting away on top of him - must _know_.

The Blue Paladin’s face is tight with horror. Lance has always had the sort of face that tells you exactly what he’s thinking. Shiro’s never seen that expression before. Never seen Lance look so sick and scared, even in the worst battle.

He has to look away. It doesn’t help. When he turns his head his gaze lands on Pidge instead, crouching beside Keith, a dismembered sentry lying at her feet. Both of them are watching Shiro with dark eyes.

God. They all know, they all saw. Fifteen-year-old Pidge had to _rescue him_ from…God. Shiro is supposed to be their leader. He’s supposed to protect them, and yet, here he is, weak and disgusting and _hurting them_.

“Jesus, Shiro. Are you-“

Lance cuts himself off. His hands flutter around Shiro’s arm but don’t make contact.

“I’m fine,” Shiro snaps. Too harsh. Too gruff. Lance winces. When Shiro shoots him an apologetic look, his eyes are wet. Shiro’s chest hurts. He curls over it, trying to stem the cracked, black wound inside him. Trying to cover himself as best his can, even though it’s pointless, even though they already _saw_. “I’m fine, just get the cuffs off and I’ll - just get the cuffs off.”

Lance pulls his hands back. It hurts, seeing him so unsure. “Pidge?”

Pidge has her bayard clutched in both hands. The cuffs that had forced Keith’s arms behind his back are already split. The connection is broken, but the metal still bracelets his wrists like strange, ugly jewellery. He’s rubbing at the skin around them. At the sound of her name, Pidge startles. Then she’s scrambling over to them, her face the same tight mask of horror as Lance’s. When she circles around behind Shiro, he fights against a flinch and loses.

It’s just Pidge, Shiro scolds himself, furious at the reaction - at himself. It’s just Pidge.

And yet, he can’t stop the awful, crawling fear that tightens his skin at the sensation of someone at his back. Not when he’s so raw. Not when he’s still naked from the waist down, covered in blood and other fluids, a wet, open wound. When Pidge gently touches his wrist he feels claws. Feels hot breath against his neck that isn’t there anymore. Feels the phantom weight of Thorak against his back. Every nerve in his body seems alight with Pidge’s proximity. 

Lance makes a soft, sympathetic sound that curls Shiro’s gut.

“What happened?” Shiro asks to distract himself. “How did you-?”

“Oh. Well, we knew - we knew you guys had gotten caught. Hunk still had his helmet on so - so we could hear-“

A dry swallow. Shiro fights against the urge to shut his eyes again. He can guess exactly what they could hear.

“We heard that you were in trouble,” Lance continues, lamely. “Pidge - did you know she can track us through the comms in the helmet? - I didn’t - so we knew roughly where you were.”

“We came through the vents.” Pidge’s voice startles him, so close to his ear. The tension holding his wrists together disappears abruptly and Pidge takes a careful step back. The Galra prosthetic is still a dead weight, hanging even more awkwardly now that it’s swinging at his side, but his other hand is free to do his bidding at least. He can’t rub at the bracelet of metal the way Keith had, but he wants to.

“We - Hunk helped us find the right room.” Shiro follows her gaze to where the Yellow Paladin is still kneeling. Shiro has been avoiding looking at him, the same way he’s been avoiding looking at Keith. For good reason. The expression on Hunk’s face is like a punch to the gut. “Then Lance sniped - sniped…” 

And that’s another thing Shiro has been avoiding looking at. He doesn’t follow her gaze to where Thorak is lying. If seeing Hunk’s face was bad, the thought of having to look at the cooling Galra corpse is a thousand times worse.

Later, he’ll have to talk to Lance about that. Shiro knows exactly what taking a life is like - no matter how much you think they might deserve it, it’s a weight on your soul that you can’t ever erase. Lance shouldn’t have to deal with that alone. It’s Shiro’s fault after all. Just another way he’s failed them.

“We probably don’t have long before someone realises what happened,” Lance adds, but he doesn’t move from where he’s kneeling beside Shiro. Doesn’t offer to help Pidge with Hunk’s cuffs, or move to help Keith where he’s collecting their bayards and the scattered remnants of Shiro’s armour. Just looks at Shiro with wet eyes, head tilted, as if he’s torn between staring and looking away.

It’s not a look that Shiro enjoys being the recipient of. He feels hot and gross and vulnerable beneath Lance’s gaze.

“Are we going to be able to get back to the lions?” Shiro asks, practicality and distraction in one. He wants to shift uncomfortably, but he doesn’t. Honestly, he’s afraid to. At the moment, adrenaline is keeping the worst of the pain at bay, but he’s aware that the damage is there, a throbbing undercurrent. Thorak hadn’t been gentle.

“If we move quickly.”

Pidge’s reappearance startles Shiro again. She can’t be moving that quietly. Most likely Shiro’s a little out of it - even before everything that happened he had taken a nasty blow to the head. Hunk is at her shoulder. He’s still crying, cheeks streaked with tears. Somehow Shiro’s chest gets impossibly tighter.

“Can you walk?” Keith asks. It’s quiet, as if the others aren’t right next to them, as if that will somehow keep the question between the two of them. He hands Shiro his armour as he says it and Shiro takes it gratefully, draping it over his lap until he can gather the strength to get back into it.

He takes the opportunity to finally inspect Keith’s face. There are tears on Keith’s cheeks too, although his eyes are dry, and there aren’t any obvious injuries that Shiro can see, aside from the cut on his jaw. Even that has stopped bleeding.

It wasn’t for nothing. Whatever Shiro had to go through, Keith is safe. Keith isn’t hurt. At least Keith isn’t the one with blood slick between his thighs.

“No I - I’m sorry -“

“Don’t apologise,” Keith snaps. At the same time, voice choked, Hunk says: “It’s OK Shiro.”

Keith’s jaw tightens angrily.

“Can I -? Is it OK if I touch you Shiro?”

It’s not OK. Nothing about this is OK. The thought of Hunk having to drag Shiro out of here like _this_ is sickening. If they get into trouble Shiro will be a liability - he’s injured, has no weapon, will only put Hunk in danger. But he nods anyway, because Shiro knows his team and he knows they would stand in that room all day rather than leave Shiro behind, and he honestly doesn’t think he can make it out under his own power.

Hunk touches him carefully, like he’s afraid Shiro might break apart beneath anything firmer. But he holds him steady as Shiro struggles into his armour and tactfully doesn’t mention the little noises of pain that Shiro can’t stifle. There’s a bruise on Hunk’s jaw, a purple wine stain spreading down his neck. It looks nasty.

Holding onto Shiro like that doesn’t leave any hands free for his bayard. Keith keeps hold of both of them, hovering at Shiro’s other side. He doesn’t say anything either, although Shiro can see him wincing out of the corner of his eye every time Shiro lets a sound slip out.

“Are you ready?” Pidge asks, once he’s closed the clasps as best he can with shaking hands. “We need to go.”

A deep breath. Then Shiro nods.

Things will be better once they’re back at the castle - once Shiro’s healed. This will be just another one of the things that Shiro keeps locked in his head. It’s not something that Shiro will have to think about.

It won’t even leave a scar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to everyone that read the first chapter and especially to those who left kudos or a comment! As a general rule I'm much better at the hurt than comfort, but I couldn't leave this without some sort of resolution, so hopefully you like it! :)

They’re all waiting for Shiro when he emerges from the pod. That’s not unusual. Ever since that first awful time with Lance, they always try to be there whenever someone wakes up. Coming to alone, disorientated, remembered pain crowding through your head is not pleasant.

Shiro stumbles, muscles loose from stasis, his brain overcompensating for the sharp, rending agony it tells him should be shooting up his spine. Hunk reaches out automatically to catch him. The touch is light, but Shiro, disoriented, can’t stop his full-body flinch, or the awful catch in his breathing as he tries to stagger away.

The devastated expression that flashes across Hunk’s face hurts.

“Sorry, Shiro, I-“

“It’s fine,” Shiro cuts in, quickly, because it looks a little like Hunk might start crying. “I’m fine.”

There’s a soft, disbelieving sound from one of the other Paladins. Shiro ignores it.

No one tries to hug Shiro, the way they usually would. They aren’t crowding him either. Other than Hunk, the Paladins are clustered a careful distance from him, as if they’re being held back by some sort of invisible force-field. Part of Shiro hates it - hates the fact that they feel they need to be careful with him, hates how frightened they are, hates the painful evidence of what happened. The other part of him is absurdly grateful, because the thought of somebody touching him right now makes his skin crawl.

Shiro crosses his arms over his chest. As much as the Paladins are avoiding crowding him, their eyes are heavy against his skin. Shiro is dressed in only the thin material of the pod suit, clinging uncomfortably to every curve of his body. It’s not a pleasant sensation, being the centre of such focussed attention, especially not when he feels so exposed.

Worse, Shiro doesn’t remember getting into the suit. Doesn’t remember much after he had forced himself into his armour and let Hunk drag him out of that room. Maybe it was shock - a cold, fuzzy blanket over his brain. Maybe it was the head injury. Either way, he doesn’t remember it. Someone else must have changed him into it - although there’s no memory of that either. The thought is cold in his chest.

He isn’t even sure if he got the chance to shower. His memories are blurry, confused things. A flash of light in his eyes, arms around him, voices speaking urgently over his head. Shiro shivers. His skin itches and he has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from scratching at his wrists, his legs.

Suddenly it’s all he can think about - the evidence of his attack stained across his skin. When Allura steps forward he takes an automatic step back. Can they smell him? Or is the stink of blood and sweat and sex just in his head?

“How are you feeling?” Allura asks, and she stops a careful distance away from him, hands folded in front of her. Does she know? She must do - even if she hadn’t heard it through the comms, the other Paladins must have had to explain it to her.

To his horror, Shiro’s eyes burn. He scrubs a hand across them to try to stem the sensation.

“A bit tired,” he says, from behind his own arm, and hopes that they’ll accept that for what it is. It’s more honest than he would normally admit to, but he doesn’t think he can say he’s fine again without someone calling him on it, and the last thing he wants to do right now is have to think about the way he _actually_ feels. “Actually, I think I’m going to clean up and turn in.”

The silence that follows is heavy. “Of course, Shiro,” Allura says, finally, and Shiro drops his hand to offer her a strained smile.

“Thanks for being here when I got out, guys. I appreciate it.”

“Of course we’d be here, Shiro.” Hunk’s voice is tight. There’s an awful, wet quality to it that Shiro wishes he couldn’t hear.

“Right.” His smile feels rigid on his face. “Well, sorry for the early night. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for training.”

“Training?” Lance complains. “Are you sure we should…?”

At the same time Allura says, “Shiro, perhaps you shouldn’t…”

Shiro cuts them off. Because he knows what they’re going to say: perhaps he should take a break. And Shiro doesn’t want that. As much as the idea of training with the Paladins - of dealing with their attention and their caution and their sad, pitying looks - is unappealing, the alternative is worse. 

If he holes himself up in his room, it means defeat, it means admitting that he’s been affected, it means that something’s _wrong_. He doesn’t need that. What he needs is to keep going, to keep busy. It’s worked for Shiro before - if he carries on as if everything is alright, then other people start to believe it, _he_ starts to believe it.

“You aren’t getting out of training that easily, Lance.” Because it’s easy to deflect, even if the others aren’t convinced by it. “I’m fully healed now, so unless any of you have been hiding injuries, there’s no excuse. I expect to see you all there.”

No one objects, although Shiro can see that none of them are particularly happy about it. Shiro gets out of there before anyone can say anything else.

***

Shiro is awake well before anyone else the next morning. Mostly because he hadn’t actually gone to sleep. He _had_ been tired. After a long, hot shower, Shiro could feel sleep dragging heavy on his eyes, had felt the fuzzy prickle at the back of his head.

But, honestly, Shiro had been scared. Even before, when Shiro’s worst memories had been vague flashes, disjointed pieces that Shiro hadn’t wanted to even attempt to fit back together, the nightmares were bad. Now, the memories were fresh and real and immediate. He could feel them crowding in his head, close against his skin. He knew exactly how bad his dreams would be. So he just hadn’t slept.

It won’t last forever. Shiro knows he’ll have to sleep eventually, nightmares or no nightmares, but if he can put it off, he will. If he can wear himself out enough, maybe he won’t have the energy to dream.

He takes another shower before he meets the Paladins in the training room. Scrubs hard enough to flush his skin pink beneath too hot water. Tries to wash away the sticky, sweaty sensation that he can’t seem to lose.

When Shiro pulls his armour on afterwards, his hands are shaking. It’s stupid - how many times has Shiro put this same armour on? How many times has he snapped the clasps shut with steady hands? Yet, that doesn’t stop the tremor of fear shivering over his skin. Doesn’t stop his breath coming quick and shallow.

The snap of the clasps echoes through his skull. Shiro feels rough hands at his ribs, claws digging into his hips. Feels teeth sharp against the back of his neck. Presses his own hands hard against his hips to try to stem the sensation.

It’s just his armour. Before...well, before, Shiro had always felt, if not exactly safe, at least not vulnerable, in it. It had been a barrier between himself and the rest of the world, a physical manifestation of his new role - of the fact that he was still alive, still fighting. Now he remembers how easily it had peeled apart, remembers the feel of unwanted hands sliding underneath it, remembers staining it with blood.

_Stop it._ Shiro needs to get a hold of himself. The other Paladins are waiting on him in the training room, he can’t fall apart over something as simple as his own armour.

He breathes, rough and ragged. Forces his hands steady. Presses the memories back into the overflowing box inside his head and turns the key. By the time he makes it to the training room, he’s the Black Paladin again and his armour is just that - armour - and nothing else.

***

It’s exactly as bad as Shiro had expected. The other Paladins are faltering, unsure. Their focus is on Shiro when it should be on the gladiator and Keith and Hunk won’t stop trying to get in between Shiro and the machine, as if he’s in any real danger. 

When the gladiator closes a hand around Keith’s wrist and throws him to the ground Keith lands badly even though he should have been able to break the grip, and when he rolls back to his knees, his eyes are wide and white in his face. When Lance gets the opportunity to take the gladiator out, he hesitates. His hands shake.

“Take the shot, Lance,” Keith snarls, and the Blue Paladin startles. The shot goes wide.

Shiro ends the simulation there, before the gladiator can do any real damage.

“OK guys.” He runs a hand through his hair and tries not to let his frustration bleed into his voice. They should be better than this. “Obviously that wasn’t...great.”

Keith scowls. When Shiro sweeps his eyes over them, both Hunk and Lance look away, and Pidge is frowning too, turning her bayard over and over in her hands.

Shiro takes a deep breath and fights not to close his eyes. He should talk to them - he _needs_ to talk to them. They’re hurting. But if Shiro acknowledges that fact, then he has to acknowledge that _he’s_ hurting too, and right now that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Listen, I know that our last mission was...that our last mission went badly.” It’s an understatement. Shiro bulldozes on before anyone can protest: “But that’s all the more reason to concentrate on training. All of us - we all need to be better prepared.”

Pidge and Lance share a look that Shiro can’t decipher. Something cold slides over his skin.

“We’ll leave it there for today so you guys can get your heads together, but I expect better tomorrow.”

“Shiro…” Pidge starts, and then stops, her mouth twisting, her bayard still turning in her hands. Shiro holds his breath, but Pidge doesn’t say anything else. She shares another look, with Hunk this time. Still, neither of them say anything.

“Go on then,” Shiro says and his throat is inordinately tight. “Before I change my mind.”

It’s difficult to tell what any of them are thinking. They hesitate and Shiro’s chest tightens. When they finally start to file out of the room, Keith throws Shiro a look that he carefully ignores.

“Lance can I talk to you for a second?”

Lance blinks, startled. Hesitates. Finally turns back into the room with an expression like Shiro had asked him to run laps rather than talk to him.

It’s not that he wants to talk to Lance any more than he wants to talk to anyone else. But if the Blue Paladin hesitates like that on a real mission, it could be the difference between life and death. And if Shiro keeps them carefully on topic, he might not have to talk about himself at all.

He hands Lance a water packet and takes a long sip of his own. Lance accepts it but doesn’t bother piercing the straw through, just worries it between his hands.

“You want to tell me what happened today?” Shiro asks, then winces. Too open-ended. Too much room for Lance to turn this around to Shiro.

But Lance doesn’t. He looks away. The water packet trembles beneath his fingers.

“Hey.” Shiro gentles his voice - tries to slip out of Black Paladin Shiro and into something more approachable. “I get it Lance. I get it. Killing someone, it…”

Lance looks up so sharply that Shiro’s words die in his mouth. The Blue Paladin’s face is very pale.

“I’m not upset that I - that I killed him.” He stumbles over the words, though. “If anyone deserves to die, it was him. I would do it again, if I could.”

“No, you wouldn’t Lance.” Shiro’s throat still feels swollen. “You’re not a killer.”

“I killed that Galra.”

“I know. I know Lance, I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“Don’t apologise,” Lance snaps. The water packet creaks in protest beneath his grip. “Don’t freaking apologise, Shiro. I’m not sorry I killed him, OK? I’m sorry - I’m sorry that I took so long to do it.”

“Lance-“

“We could - me and Pidge - we could hear -“ he makes a small, hurt sound. Shiro feels cold all over. “We knew you were in trouble and...if we’d been quicker maybe he wouldn’t have…”

“That’s not on you Lance. You got to us. You saved us. And you killed him, and that’s not nothing. It doesn’t matter how badly he deserved it - it’s still a weight that _you_ don’t deserve.”

There’s no reply. Lance is staring at his feet, brows pulled low over his eyes.

“You hesitated today, with the gladiator,” Shiro tries, softly. Watches Lance’s shoulders tense.

“It won’t happen again.” Lance’s voice is thick, eyes still trained on the ground.

“I’m not worried about it happening again. I’m worried about why it happened. It’s OK to be upset, but you can’t let it affect you in the field. If you need to talk about it, you should.”

Hypocrite. It’s so hypocritical that Shiro could almost laugh - but it’s always been easier to deal with other people’s problems, other people’s emotions. Lance stares at his hands. His fingers flex.

“I don’t know why,” is what finally comes out. “It was just the gladiator, but when I - I don’t know. I saw him again, I guess. Saw him...hurting you. Saw his...body...I don’t…”

An awful sob bursts out of Lance’s throat. When he looks up, his eyes find Shiro’s, wet and dark.

“I don’t regret killing him.”

Shiro does.

***

That night, Shiro dreams.

It’s fragmented, confused - flashes of sights and sounds and sensations. Hands on his skin. Teeth in his neck. Fur and claws and hot breath. Pain burning impossibly deep inside him.

Shiro isn’t entirely sure where he is. He thinks he might be in his cell on the prison ship but something about that doesn’t seem right. He isn’t sure who’s with him - Sendak, maybe? - although something about that doesn’t seem right either.

There’s sand beneath his face. Blood in his mouth. Someone presses him into the floor of the arena, heavy at his back, and the crowd roars. They’re always roaring, always screaming - for blood, for death, for whatever they can take from him and more than that.

Shiro tries to fight, but his arms don’t work, and besides, it’s Keith at his back, forcing him into the ground. It’s Keith tearing him apart. Shiro can’t hurt him, he _can’t_.

Only he is - pressing Keith into the sand. Gripping his hips tight enough to bruise.

_Champion, Champion, Champion_ , the crowd chants, and Shiro draws his Galra arm back and gives them what they want.

Shiro wakes up screaming.

The sound stays mostly trapped in his throat - comes out as a low, strangled moan instead. He gasps, chokes for air on his ragged inhale. Struggles to orient himself.

No sand. No crowd. No Keith. Just Shiro, tangled in his sheets, sweat slick against his skin, his Galra hand flickering with the fear thrumming through his veins.

It was just a dream. Shiro flexes his Galra hand, watches the fingers move. That didn’t...that didn’t happen. Keith isn’t hurt. He’s never had to feel arena sand beneath his feet. Never had to hear the roar of the crowd in his ears. Thorak didn’t hurt him. Shiro didn’t hurt him.

The iron taste of blood lingers on his tongue.

It’s not a surprise, exactly, that fragments of his year in captivity have tangled around with the assault in his head. But something about it sends a shiver of unease over him anyway. He traces a shaking hand over his chest, feels scars beneath the thin cotton of his vest. Feels claws, sliding under his armour. Shiro circles fingers around his wrists. Presses nails into the jagged, lightning-bolt scars where flesh meets metal. Brushes over the jut of his hips.

There aren’t any marks left - no bruises pressed into his skin, no stark white scars where Thorak’s claws had pierced flesh. There _are_ scars there: a gnarled divot, as if someone had taken a chunk out of him, a criss-cross lattice of cuts scoured across his skin. Shiro traces them with shaking fingers.

They could be claw marks. Those little pinprick circles punched into his skin could be from teeth. Or, just as likely, they could be nothing. Someone could have held him down, pressed him into the arena sand or the cold metal floor of his cell, hurt him, and left no evidence behind at all. Shiro might never know.

It’s not the first time he’s wondered. It’s the first time he’s felt so sick with it, phantom pain throbbing in his guts. It’s the first time he’s had a memory to put with the awful fear - of exactly how bad it could be.

Shiro scrapes blunt nails over his skin and, for the first time, wishes he could forget.

***

Shiro is in one of the observation rooms when Keith finds him, leaning his head against the cool glass. Outside is an endless, fathomless darkness, dotted with stars. Shiro stares into that vast blackness and the hole in his chest feels a little less wide.

Shiro pulls his head away from the window when he hears him come in, but doesn’t turn towards his friend. He can see him in the reflection, wavering on the glass, hovering in the doorway, awkward and unsure in a way Keith rarely is. Something hot swells in Shiro’s throat. For some reason, Shiro feels his heart rate kick into higher gear, speeding beneath his chest. It leaves him dizzy.

It’s just Keith. However bad this conversation is going to be - it’s still just Keith.

Shiro takes a deep breath. In the reflection, he sees Keith’s face tighten, sees him take a decisive step into the room.

“Can’t sleep?”

Despite knowing Keith’s there, the quiet voice still startles him. Shiro grimaces, forces his face into something pleasantly neutral, then turns towards him.

“No, guess I couldn’t.” The smile is strained, but it’s there at least. “Did you need something?”

Keith doesn’t smile back. For no reason at all Shiro’s breath hitches.

“Shiro, can we -? I think we should talk.”

A long, slow breath. “Sure, what did you want to talk about?”

“Don’t. Don’t do that, Shiro. You know what I’m talking about.”

Of course he does. It’s not like there’s anything else _to_ talk about except for the huge purple elephant in the room.

Still, it takes a surprising effort to keep his face blank. 

“If you have something to say, Keith, you can.”

That has Keith’s face tightening. It’s probably not the right thing to say. It’s not the right way to handle this. If Shiro were a better leader, he would know exactly how to soothe Keith’s concern, - would never have let any of this happen in the first place.

But he’s not. Shiro’s not a leader right now. He’s not anything. All he wants to do is forget that anything ever happened. Push it to the back of his mind where he keeps all the other awful things the Galra have done, and go on as he had before.

But it’s difficult to do that when everyone else remembers it right along with him.

That year in captivity is something that the others barely know anything about - hell, Shiro barely remembers what happened during it. It’s easy to ignore it for the most part. The other Paladins probably don’t even think about it unless Shiro has a flashback. Even his arm is almost an afterthought these days. There’s something removed about the memories - as if they exist behind some screen in his head.

This is real and raw and painfully immediate.

“Shiro-“ Keith takes his own steadying breath. Shiro watches his chest rise and fall. Keith’s OK, he reminds himself for what seems like the hundredth time, whatever happens, Keith’s OK. “I just...I’m sorry.”

“What?” That isn’t at all what Shiro was expecting. Something cold slides through Shiro’s gut. “Why are you sorry?”

“Are you serious? If I hadn’t - if it wasn’t for me…”

“Keith. Stop it.” Nausea churns Shiro’s stomach. He should have seen this coming. But the idea still seems insane - that Keith could think anything that happened was because of him. That Keith would blame himself. He’s reminded uncomfortably of his earlier conversation with Lance: _if we’d been quicker…_ “You’re not - Jesus. You’re not blaming yourself?”

“Of course I am! Shiro - you shouldn’t have done that for me. You should never have had to - to -“

“Listen Keith,” Shiro interrupts, sliding off of the window ledge to face him properly. He needs to make sure Keith understands this. It’s not acceptable for anyone but Shiro to be taking the responsibility for the calamity of a mission. “What happened wasn’t because of you, OK? Thorak didn’t hurt me instead of hurting you, he...hurt me because he wanted to. If you hadn’t been there it might have been Hunk, or Lance, or whoever was convenient.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, coldly. “And if you hadn’t been there he would have raped _me_ like he’d intended.”

Despite everything, hearing the word, cold and flat and real, is a shock. It hits Shiro like a physical blow. Until now, Shiro hasn’t really allowed himself to think the word. And that’s stupid - it’s _stupid_ \- because not thinking it doesn’t change what happened. Not having a name for the awful violence enacted upon him doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t help him stop thinking about it, stop dreaming about it, stop feeling it.

It doesn’t stop him struggling with it.

Which is stupid too, because the rape isn’t even the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. When they had taken his arm it had been with the same callous disregard for his consent, it had been another painful invasion of his body, his soul. This shouldn’t hurt any more than that. At least this time he was protecting someone he loves.

And yet…

Keith doesn’t even have that baseline. He’s not...damaged like Shiro is. The thought of Thorak hurting Keith like that is horrific. Just the image of his hands on him, of that malicious intent, is bad enough.

“I know, Keith.” Shiro deserves his coldness, his anger. It was Shiro’s fault they were even in that position in the first place. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I let that happen to you.”

“What?” Keith’s mouth gapes. “You’re apologising? Jesus, Shiro, that’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant Keith. I put you in danger and -“

“Stop it!” The anger in Keith’s voice pulls Shiro up short. He can’t help flinching. There’s the same wet catch to the words as...as when…

The memory rolls over Shiro like a wave: Keith, screaming on the floor, Hunk’s voice, high and scared. _Stop it! Get off of him!_ Hot, foul breath against his cheek.

Someone touches his arm - Keith, his mind supplies, even as his muscles tense with fear.

“Shiro?”

When Shiro blinks back into awareness, Keith is right in front of him, pale and concerned, one hand resting tentatively on the curve of Shiro’s bicep.

“Are you OK? What happened?”

The anger is gone. Shiro doesn’t particularly like the thready concern it’s been replaced with.

“Nothing.” Shiro shrugs off Keith’s hand. A hot imprint of it tingles on his skin, like a brand, long after Keith drops it to his side. Shiro swallows, hard, furious with himself. “It’s nothing.”

There’s doubt painted across Keith’s face, but, because it’s Keith, he doesn’t push it. Shiro is absurdly grateful.

“Shiro I’m not angry with you,” Keith says instead, softly, and Shiro has to look away. To his horror, he can feel the hot prickle of tears behind his eyes. There’s a soft huff. “Well, I am angry with you. But not because I think anything that happened was your fault.”

“I’m your leader. I’m responsible for everything that happens on a mission-“

“You’re not responsible for some sick freak deciding he wants to - to rape me.” He stumbles over the word this time, Shiro notes, feeling a little sick. “How could I blame you for that? You saved me Shiro. You - _that’s_ why I’m angry.”

Shiro blinks. He’s lost control of this conversation somehow. Isn’t actually sure he’s ever had it. Keith runs a hand through his hair and huffs another frustrated breath.

“I get wanting to protect us, but this isn’t the same as taking a hit from a gladiator, or taking point on a dangerous mission.” Keith’s voice rises with every word. “He _raped_ you Shiro. He - God - he raped you.”

There are tears on Keith’s cheeks, wet in his voice. Shiro feels strangely numb.

“Why did you do it Shiro? You think I wanted to watch him do that to you? Knowing that it was you instead of me? I wish - I wish it had been me -“

“Keith.” There’s an awful roiling nausea curling Shiro’s stomach. In contrast, his voice is oddly calm. “I’m so sorry that you had to go through that.” Then, quickly, before Keith can interrupt him: “But I won’t apologise for what I did. If I have to I’ll do it again. For any of you.”

“Why, Shiro? You think any of us want that? You think we want you to sacrifice yourself for us?”

“I don’t care what you want!” It’s loud. Too loud. Too angry. Keith recoils, shrinking back from his sudden fury. “This isn’t up for discussion. You’re a fucking kid Keith, all of you are! And you’re my responsibility. If you think I’m going to sit by and watch whilst someone - someone - rapes you -“

The tears Shiro had felt threatening behind his eyes well up, hot and shameful, spilling over his cheeks. He chokes.

“Not if I can do something about it. I would rather have died than watch you go through that. I would have let him rape me a hundred times if it meant he wouldn’t touch you.”

Keith looks like he’s trying not to be sick. “Don’t you think I feel the same?”

“It’s not the same! Keith, you - all of you - you’ve got a chance for a normal life after this. You don’t deserve to be here. You don’t deserve to have to fight or hurt or worry about being tortured or - or raped.”

Shiro takes a shuddering breath. In front of him, Keith is still and silent and white-faced.

“I’m - I’m already fucked up, OK? The Galra already took away my chance for a normal life. And after some of the things I did in the arena, I’m not sure I deserve one. But you’ve still got a chance. I’ll do anything to keep it that way.”

“Shiro…”

Keith’s voice is very soft. Shiro presses a hand over his eyes to try to stem the tears - to block out Keith’s face so he won’t have to see the disgust there. But he can’t stop the sob that bubbles out of his throat - an awful, wet, gasping thing that Shiro hates.

“Shiro.”

A feather-light touch on his wrist. Shiro drops his hand, irrationally afraid of those fingers closing around him. When his vision clears, Keith is right in front of him, shockingly close. Shiro can’t stop his flinch, or the tight, shocked sound that bursts out of his throat.

“You’re wrong Shiro,” Keith says, softly, ignoring Shiro’s overreaction. Then he leans forward and presses their foreheads together, a firm pressure. Shiro waits for the fear. For the memories. He can feel Keith’s breath, hot on his face. Is painfully aware of bare skin against skin. But Keith doesn’t put his arms around him - doesn’t hold him still or press himself closer. Shiro could step away if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. Because it’s Keith, it’s just Keith.

“You deserve a normal life, Shiro. You shouldn’t have to fight either. You shouldn’t have had to deal with the Galra. You didn’t deserve it.”

Another sob bursts out of Shiro’s throat. He drops his head to press it against Keith’s collarbone instead and his friend turns to rest his cheek on the top of Shiro’s skull and still carefully doesn’t touch him.

“You didn’t deserve any of it, Shiro. Not the arena, not the - the arm, not the-“ a wet swallow that, so close, Shiro can’t avoid hearing, “not the rape.”

Shiro huffs a soft sound against Keith’s shoulder. “I know Keith.”

A hand finally closes around his arm, fingers tight against his skin. Shiro tenses but doesn’t shake it off.

“I’m serious Shiro. It wasn’t your fault. I’m - I’m sorry for...I don’t know - for getting so angry, for acting like you had some sort of _choice_.” Keith presses his cheek harder into Shiro’s head. “I just...I _am_ angry. Not at you. At this whole situation, I guess. At that fucking bastard who raped you. I don’t know how to handle...this.”

Shiro presses his head hard enough against Keith’s collarbone to hurt. He wants to make this better. He wants to stop Keith from hurting. But honestly, Shiro isn’t entirely sure how to handle this either. It’s clear that, as much as he might want to, Shiro isn’t going to be allowed to pretend this never happened.

“It’s OK to be angry Keith,” is what he finally settles on. It’s not exactly what he wants to say, but it’s true, at least. Then, in a fit of honesty that he immediately wishes he could take back: “ _I’m_ angry.”

The hand on his arm tightens. There’s a quick, startled breath.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says quickly. “I shouldn’t have-“

“Don’t apologise. You should talk about it. I want you to talk about it. I can handle it, Shiro. I’m not going to think less of you for - for being upset about this. No one will.”

It’s a strange role reversal - almost the exact same thing he had said to Lance - but, even so, it’s hard to see how they couldn’t. As close as he is with the other Paladins, Shiro’s always kept a careful barrier between them - even with Keith. It’s both a necessity of command and a personal preference on Shiro’s part. He’s meant to be strong, to be - not infallible, maybe - but someone who can be relied upon. Someone the other Paladins don’t need to support. The last thing he wants is to expose his own weakness like this. It’s bad enough that they know about the rape - about how vulnerable he was forced to be. It’s bad enough that Keith and Hunk had to watch it. He doesn’t want to burden them with all his awful insecurities too.

But if Keith had...if it had been Keith, Shiro knows that he would be furious if he felt the same way. He would be hurt that Keith couldn’t confide in him. It’s not quite the same, and maybe it’s not the healthiest way to think about it either, but Shiro’s throat swells hot and tight nonetheless.

“It’s not fair,” is what finally chokes its way out. The grip on his arm loosens, but only so Keith can slide a careful arm around Shiro’s back instead, giving him plenty of time to pull away. Shiro doesn’t, although he doesn’t put his arms around him in return. Just shuts his eyes and listens to Keith breathe steadily by his ear.

“It’s not fair. I’m tired of being hurt, of being...used. Of feeling like I’m -“ He flexes his metal hand, feels the way the fingers twist and bend, a strange, foreign implement welded onto his flesh, his brain. Keith’s arm tightens. “Like I’m not in control of my body. Like it’s not...mine.”

There’s a soft sound above his head but Keith doesn’t say anything, and Shiro is grateful, because he’s honestly not sure what there is to say.

“I’m tired of feeling like I deserve it.”

“I’m sorry, Shiro,” Keith finally murmurs, because maybe that’s the only thing he can say. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Keith’s OK, Shiro reminds himself, through the tears burning in his throat, listening to his friend breathe steadily against him. Whatever happens, Keith’s OK.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr at [bearly-writing](https://bearly-writing.tumblr.com/) if you fancy dropping by for a chat, or to request a Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt!


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